Masked
by Alley Cat Sunflower
Summary: The surprising headcanonical origins of the most famous masked demon. Also partially explains what happened in the time of the Hero of Men, mentioned in Minish Cap. I don't own the cover art or any part of Legend of Zelda! T for extremely dark themes and blood.
1. Pride

Cold. Cold and dark. So bitingly, terrifyingly cold. If she had had a body, she would be writhing with pain and fury. It wasn't even her fault. Or at least, that's what she had told everyone, including herself, and no one would dare contradict nor accuse _her, _the younger twin sister of the Princess of Hyrule herself! How was it, then, that the Hero of Men had been able to see through her lies? And how was it that he had been charming enough to capture her?

For her thirteenth birthday, she had been killed—something she never thought would happen at such a young age. Well, she didn't actually know what had happened, but this was definitely what she imagined death felt like. She couldn't see, nor feel anything but cold, and it seemed to her that she had no body. Trapped in the wintry darkness forever. And yet she knew she deserved it in the eyes of the deities whose gift she had desperately sought.

She had brought the shadows to Hyrule in an effort to gain power and prestige for once in her young, insignificant life. Disappointment in the outcome of the civil war almost five hundred years prior was not a sin. Desire to finally surpass her kind, beautiful elder sister in _something_ was not a crime. And yet they knew. The creatures she could not see, only hear. They watched her. Maybe they were still watching her. She couldn't tell.

The one she heard called the Hero of Men, only a little older than her (to her surprise), led by those invisible creatures, had captured her that rainy night. She would never feel the rain again. Had she had a voice any longer, she would have cried aloud at the thought. They had led her through the Lost Woods to a chasm, and he had taken her hand. Comfortingly. Like no one ever would again. And they had fallen down into the forbidden hole, urged on by the invisible voices, softly down to a place exactly like the woods they had just left.

The Hero had smiled at her, gently, and kissed her very briefly, and in that instant her resolve wavered. Something it had never done before. Was it really worth it to destroy her own kingdom just to gain power, when such fine people existed as _him_? Before she could ask the question aloud, the disembodied voices surrounded her. Four giants emerged from four directions, lonely, she could tell. Converging on the uneventful forest in which they stood. On _her._ The Hero smiled again, sadly, and drew his sword. She closed her eyes, half-outraged, half-frightened, preparing unexpectedly for her long-awaited yet unexpected punishment. For death.

He had not used the weapon to kill her; that much might have been a blessing. After his sword had been drawn, and she opened her eye just a crack to see what the delay was in her execution, he had taken out a mask that had been strapped to his back: a heart-shaped mask with several multicolored spikes protruding from the sides and eyes that sent shivers down her soul. Her own eyes, made wide and grotesque. Her pale green irises drowning in a sea of orange-and-yellow whites.

_ Light Force, seal this creature's soul away; darkness is banished only by bright day._

Insulted, surrounded, trapped, _scared. _She screamed but the sound of her voice was cut off forever, and her vision swirled once, dizzyingly, and went dark. She could feel nothing anymore, for nothingness was in the void all around her. She was not floating, nor was she sinking, nor standing nor sitting nor any kind of physical position. She was nowhere, doing nothing, completely still. There was no motion, no light nor sound nor company in her solitary prison. And yet she could feel that she was moving.

It went on like that for days on end. She had no need for sleep or breathing or a beating heart, having no body any longer, and the eternal consciousness was driving her mad. Loneliness ate into her exposed core—the same loneliness she had striven to suppress all through her friendless childhood, magnified a thousand times. The silence stabbed into what might have been her mind, once, as she reflected continually over her hopeless situation and what she had done to get herself into it. At first, she denied her undeniable crimes. She had never been regretful in her life; the experience was quite alien to her, and not at all pleasant once she finally let it in: _I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. _The same phrase was the only one occupying her thoughts for hours upon hours at a time before she turned restlessly to her present situation once more.

Suddenly, when what could have been a full week passed, the impalpable motion stopped, cutting off her would-be-tearful recollections of the last few days. Hope filled what was once her heart as she heard something—actually heard something! She never thought she would rejoice because of something as simple as the sound of strangers' voices. Would they release her from her prison? Had they sensed her repentance, however reluctantly it originally came?

But despair swallowed her once more as she realized that the word that echoed all around her prison was only her name, spoken by the sibilant, power-radiant, compassionate voices of three unknown women as she fell suddenly into unconsciousness:

_Majora._


	2. Covetousness

Someone was coming. She knew it, somehow, as she stirred in her as yet dreamless sleep, and more certainly still, when what would have been her eyes fluttered open. Something was disturbing her rest, yet she was not moving. How long had it been? Minutes, or millennia? She had no way of knowing. When before she had sensed no body, she now somehow realized she had one, but she was trapped within it rather than a connected part of it. Her mind, unlike her body, was timeless, stuck as a thirteen-year-old girl forevermore. She turned her attention to the presence that had awakened her, annoyed. Sleep did not come easily and was to be cherished as long as possible.

Still no sounds, no sight. Just relentless, silent shadows. Beginning to doubt her senses, she waited for something to come for her. Perhaps her benevolent sister had sent someone to find her. She was sure, after all, that Zelda was not aware of her influence over the terrible creatures that had plagued Hyrule. Was it long enough, though, that everyone she knew had perished? She wailed inwardly, wishing she knew more.

A sound like thunder suddenly reached her nonexistent ears, and she flinched. Trying to identify it, she felt herself rising up in the same motionless movement that had brought her to wherever she had been. In the sky, she thought, identifying her prison without knowing how she could. In the sky.

So why was she rising _up_?

The disturbance, she discovered, was a great grinding stony sort of sound, immediately followed by the noise of a hundred souls crying out as they fell past her. The sound of suffering. Their terrified shouts echoed in her mind, driving her mad with the same phrase she had thought before absolute, furious despair had finally clutched her: _I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. _She tried to block out the noise, but it wormed its way into her head and chanted with voices snuffed out one by one till only a single voice remained. _Forgive us. Forgive._

Her movement halted and she knew now that whatever physical form she had was hovering. The only sound that now reached her was the sound of ragged, hoarse, horrified breathing before her. Something, at least, had survived. She tried to control whatever her physical manifestation was and found, to her surprise, that she could now direct it with a simple thought.

Her senses, she found, were a curious thing. They did not allow her to actually _see_, yet she could tell that a man was huddled in front of her, life force shining out to her, dimly. She knew where he was and even what he looked like without seeing anything at all. And suddenly, as though someone had flicked a switch inside her head, she knew what she had to do.

The young man shrieked, a desperate, unbroken, unspeakably terrified noise which would have set her teeth on edge if she had had any. He was just like her. Scared, sorry, desperate, and forlorn. Comfort. She would try to comfort him.

Tentatively, she imagined she was reaching out mentally, grasping the pulsating ball of light that was his life force, and _felt _something. For once in a long time, she _felt _a quivering, warm, pleasurable feeling spread throughout her soul, and she laughed a little despite herself. She heard herself laugh! Even as the sound escaped her, she was sucked suddenly into a physical form again, and the laugh deepened before halting abruptly.

His—no, her eyes blinked open and immediately stared, getting used to the sensation. She was sitting in an upside-down tower, where the sky was below the earth from which the tower rose, and understood how she could have been rising upwards from the stars. The problem that now presented itself was, how was she going to get out of this place?

She glanced down and found that she was a somewhat handsome and somewhat lower-class young man, based on his body and clothing, and flexed her fingers, letting out another shriek of laughter. But when she felt her face, her eyes widened. It was a mask. _She _was a mask. Her chuckles died away as quickly as they had been born. Was she meant to possess other creatures, to invade their privacy so completely as to take control of their mind and body, in order to survive?

She told herself, aloud, that she would not do it.

His psyche stirred faintly beneath her own, the first inkling she had of his consciousness, but she reluctantly smothered his weak rebellion (judging that he would slow her down) and gathered up his memories, trying to piece together what had happened and how to guide him out of this prison.

From his memories, hazy with terror but readily accessible all the same, she gleaned that he was a soldier in a castle, apparently named for the leader of a group who had ventured here almost a century ago, looking for someone or something powerful. This building, a tower of stone—a temple—had been seized from the enemy in an ancient war whose purpose was now forgotten; this man had been one of the group assigned to inspect the building.

Even as she looked around, she saw that those who had built the place had blasphemed the Triforce in every way possible, and a boiling feeling filled her newfound stomach. It was the Triforce for which she had fought and died; how could they insult that memory of golden flawlessness so easily?

She frowned as she examined the red emblem that had apparently turned the tower upside-down, according to his memories, raising her hand to _feel _the smoothness and the beautiful golden arrow sticking impossibly out of the glassy red center. _He_ had shot it. _He_ had been the one to condemn his comrades.

Blood. _Dripping _with blood. Her eyes widened and she stumbled back, retching and looking at his hand; the dark liquid dripped ominously from her fingertips, and she cried out, shaking off the last remains of his allies spasmodically.

_Their blood is on my hands. _She heard the words as though they were spoken audibly, though nothing in the temple was alive to speak save herself.

She forced herself to walk back to the symbol, resenting how fast her new heart was beating, and yanked the bloody arrow out, trembling against her will as the tower shuddered and gravity readjusted itself. Flying into the floor that was formerly the ceiling, and feeling altogether too shaky for her liking, she picked herself up and wound her way out of the labyrinth-like tower, keeping her eyes from straying farther than the ground directly before her and emerging into the desert perhaps an hour later.


	3. Anger

Despising the necessity of physical needs, and resenting the time it took for her to get there because of them, she used his memories to guide herself to the castle, a thousand questions in her ever-active mind. The sun was just beginning to set when she walked through the doors and, escorted by a squadron of soldiers, arrived in the throne room.

She told the king of her plight, of the tower and its mysteries, and begged him to release her.

After his initial shock at her tale, he asked her what she would give him in return for her release, much more disinterestedly.

All she had, she said, and more. Please. Please. Never had she come so close to begging; her station and her disposition would not allow it.

Even if she had a thousand gold pieces, he laughed, even if she were to pledge her undying devotion to him until the end-times, he would not and could not help her. Did she know the legend of the stone-tower temple?

No, she said, a tear streaking down beneath her mask, no.

A century before, he growled, rising from his throne, no, more than a century before, a group of misfits had been recruited to find the princess's missing sister. They had been dying of hunger and thirst and disease by the time they got to this wasteland. They prayed to the Goddesses to no avail, then cursed them and their blasted Triforce with no consequences descending from the heavens. The first thing they had done upon arriving here was settle the least habitable place, just to spite them. The stone-tower had been an effort to reach the heavens and take power in the name of the king. But the group split up, and the others took the tower. The king's men had only retrieved ownership today, many decades later, and only the soldier she now possessed remained alive.

But she was the sister, she insisted, interrupting the story. She was the one they had been looking for. The purpose of the original group was to save her; could their descendants not carry on the task?

That would be unwise, murmured the king cruelly, tearing off the mask from the soldier and hurling her flailing back into the void. That kingdom was a realm of blood and destruction, a realm of those who thought for themselves; Hyrule was a land of cowards afraid to take arms, a land of Goddess-worshippers blindly following their Princess. Times were changing. She had to change with them.


	4. Sloth

There was no easy unconsciousness this time. She was forced to remain awake constantly, without the comforting voices of the wrathful Goddesses to send her into dreamless sleep, and so she dwelt upon her revenge. Meditated. Shut what were once her eyes and wished it wasn't happening.

Her mind was eternally conscious, and it tore into her even deeper than it had before. She was aware of every second's passage, and aware of a hundred thousand million more after that, and aware that she would never blink never breathe never eat never drink never talk never sleep never never _never_, only listen to the silent melody of the shadows, and the nonexistent whispers of the dead that had died because of her.

And oh, the revenge she planned. Her procedure was not a consciously made one, but a sound one nonetheless. She found, over the minutes and hours and days and weeks and months and years, there was a lingering feeling of fury, a bottomless rage that tempered the ever-extending frigid lack of anything in her prison. It warmed her, and she reveled in the heat.

She would break free. She would she would she _would_ and nothing could stop her, nothing, not the king not the soldiers not her sister not the Goddesses themselves, nothing… nothing was all around her, she had done nothing, she was doing nothing, she would do nothing forever, nothing was her fault… nothing came of anything and everything returned to nothing someday—

She blinked. Someone had put her mask on.


	5. Gluttony

She stood there, smilingly, holding the knife up to the light, admiring how it shone through the translucent bone blade and accentuated the red liquid splashed haphazardly across it. Any moment now, they would come to arrest her for assassinating the cruel king, who had kept her in the mask for ten years, alone with her thoughts for what seemed an eternity, shattered, vengeful.

She was to be executed, they said, and at hearing this, she instinctively drained all her host's life force as easily as swallowing water used to be. She detached her mask from his severed head when they had cut it off, not knowing enough to take her off beforehand. They had made her a murderer._ His_ soul had disappeared from under her own long before she released his body, and his voice, whose last words would be on_ her_ nonexistent lips—

_ You will suffer—_

His voice had faded away.

She had spoken on her own, for the first time. On her own. On her own. On her own, alone, separated, alone, lost, alone, angry, alone, _murderous_.

They wouldn't leave her alone. Always challenging her, saying derisively that she would never best them, that they would never submit to her rule, that she was weak and they were strong.

She had become something of a legend, according to the memories of those who donned her. They called her a mask, just a mask, not a person any longer but an artifact, ancient, powerful, nigh sacred, suffering, tortured. Pain was holy, to be admired, to be inflicted upon others until they screamed for mercy, and beyond that, until _their _voices faded away too. Happiness, save the savage, poisonous joy of revenge, was unthinkable.

Interruptions in her broken thoughts were rude, but happened more and more frequently before she was left alone with her mind again, pitched shrieking into what she wished was slumber. And it was the same story each time she was worn again.

Someone whose identity was hazy with all the layers and layers and layers of fear and pain and skepticism would don her mask, and she would relish the feeling of overwhelming terror that enveloped them, of grasping their pleasantly warm life force, wavering in awe of her practically spectral form.

She made up the rules of her game, in which she was the solitary player. If she killed each person in the ring without suffering any damage to her prisoner's body, she won an imaginary hundred years in her own body again, to be repaid by her captors in full. If she cut off at least one piece of their flesh before doing away with them, each piece was worth another year. The rules varied beyond those, but she won no matter what she did—how could she lose in a situation like hers?—and at the very end she would always drain the life energy from her host, swallowing their voice and warning her audience again, staring into their nervous eyes, always the same words:

_ You will suffer._

With every sip of energy from the living, she felt herself growing stronger, and there were some decades when she almost felt sane. Calm. Composed. Levelheaded. Peaceful, even, until she was reminded yet again of what she had become. She experimented with weaponmaking in her dark prison, creating imaginary enemies, forging weapons out of pure energy, shadowy tendrils extending in all directions, to combat them.

What surprised her, with a gleeful kind of shock, was that the weapons worked.

From that point on, she used those instead of the crude weapons they gave her. She would stare at the spectators, smiling beneath her mask. Shatter the knife and spear and machete just by squeezing them just right. Finding the right frequency to splinter them into a million tiny fragments. Like her mind. And then she would flick her victims' energy out into whiplike strands, yanking them towards her, slitting their fragile throats, destroying everyone in record time. Sometimes, the audience was no different to her than the prisoners.

It was then, perhaps, that they realized the danger she posed. Realized what they had done to her. A century passed, or more, before they unchained her again, and she began longing for her game to begin once more, for more players to slaughter so she could desperately proclaim herself a winner. She howled day and night with the voices of the dead, forgetting that she had been saving their screams for later, shrieking to be let out once more, until their voices gave out at last with a dying sputter; she fell silent, and waited. And waited. And waited.

The day came when she was disturbed again, but no men eager to die awaited her in a ring. As she adjusted to the light, wonderfully physical, she silently took in her surroundings. _There _were her men. Marching towards her, at a distance, dust flying up in the desert sunrise, and carrying their primitive weapons.

War. She knew war when she saw it. It was no affair of hers.

But why had they decided to give her such a glorious reward for her mad, bitter patience? A golden reward, fit for the queen she should have been. A reward soaked and gleaming in the blood of this world, easily twice as cruel as she.

They actually thought she would help them. Their army had dwindled, according to the thoughts of her foolish wearer, and she was their last chance against the enemy from whom they had stolen the stone-tower temple.

She raised her arms to the heavens, a smile on her face, grateful tears streaming down beneath her mask as she recognized her opportunity. She bared her teeth in a savage grin, relishing the fear on the faces of those who were supposedly her allies.

They were so naïve, to think she would help them win their infinitessimal little conflict. So young, fresh, tender, raw, pulsing with life and necessity, clinging to the faint and final hope of her assistance to their cause.

There was nothing holding her back now.


	6. Lust

A hundred corpses. More than that, five hundred. More than that. More. Always more. She stumbled through the wastelands, painting broken images on the rocks with the blood of the fallen, smiling the whole way. Two kingdoms destroyed, all because of her. Of course, there were survivors, but she would remedy that, as soon as she knew where she was going.

But her victory was short-lived, as her mask was suddenly pried off the body of her weakened prisoner. Stolen, unable to fight back. Taken and tossed into the bottomless sky once more, falling upwards until she again rested among the stars. Whoever had stolen her knew better than to don her mask. An intelligent one, for once.

Surprised, disbelieving, she realized how tired she was. Tired of torture, and of her game, and of the endless river of blood stemming from her wrath. And of the tormenting memory of the Hero who had condemned her to this life. She sank into unconsciousness, the voice of the Goddesses ringing in her nonexistent ears once more:

_Majora._

She'd met with a terrible fate, hadn't she?

Someone addressed her. Actually addressed her. As though she was a person.

Stirring herself reluctantly out of her sleep, she tried to mumble a response. She had been asleep so much longer this time. So much so that she forgot, for a moment, all the hellish moments that had been hers to cherish all these years, and only when she tried to stretch the weariness out of her nonexistent bones did all those memories come flooding back like the tide of blood she had unleashed upon the world.

The voice of the man who spoke was not a familiar one. She felt herself falling again, and grasped at the glittering stars she knew were somewhere above her, wanting to be asleep, wishing she could just forget again. Lie there in blissful ignorance forever. Spill no more blood and tear apart no more of her already tattered mind.

But whoever had summoned her mask down from the heavens did not don it, as she wished he would. He was evidently more intelligent than the others, like the last man who had touched her mask. Especially as he asked her if she could speak.

She offered no response. If she acted like the mask she was, perhaps he would be discouraged. But her luck was never that great, no, never. He carried her with him, babbling something about mythology and constellations and towers, and complaining about bright arrows and bloody gemstones and nameless goddesses.

And many times, he laughed a laugh that sent shivers through her prison, shivers filled with the mystery of another world. He was not from around this place. No more from here than she was. She was sure of it.

A kindred spirit. Something like hope, or compassion, or some similar, long-buried emotion stirred deep within her, but she thrust it down again before it could leap into her core. It had no place inside someone like her.

His voice stirred her out of her thoughts again. A welcome sensation compared to the crushing black oblivion of loneliness. And then hope, wild, overwhelming hope, danced within her:

He would give her the means of revenge, he said, if she covered for his theft and helped him leave there in three days' time. Though he said no more, his voice ached with an untold story, one she suspected she would never know. And for the first time in her life, she felt a sense of alliance, of an identical goal in life embedded within another.

Where was 'there'? she asked expressionlessly, betraying no emotion. If he was trying to trick her, he would suffer like no other. She imagined, just for a moment, a faceless male figure writhing in agony as she flicked a hand and opened a cut, one by one, ripping him into a thousand pieces without killing him and stitching his living flesh back together again as he screamed for the mercy, never granted her—

If he gave her a body, would she help him escape?

No, she said; now that he had taken her from her resting place, she could find a body anywhere she liked. That was a useless offer.

If he gave her a body and the promise of the world's destruction, would she help him escape?

She thought carefully. Blood. The promise of blood, spilling out of a gash in the side of the world. And her will weakened, something it had never done in a thousand years or more.

She would help.


	7. Envy

The plan was simple enough.

He knew the host body needed a mask to cover his face, a travesty of a child's. He would lie down and sleep—something she wished she could do—and the host would steal her mask, clearly the most attractive and accessible of the set the man carried, and put it on. And she could do what she wished with him, as long as she did not kill him. A burning disappointment warmed her frigid prison.

Why a child, though? she asked. He sounded weak.

He was a legend, said the man. He was said to have been the companion of the four giants, long since lost to time. And these four giants may have granted him the power of a god. She would not want for entertainment.

She could play her games? she asked with childish eagerness.

But she may not slaughter yet, warned the man, and she reluctantly heeded his words.

Taking orders. Something she had never done before.

That month was the most fun she had ever had while in her cursed, miserable form.

Her host body was perfect, as they had predicted: cooperative, mischievous, and with a little bit of bloodthirstiness hidden deep within him, stemming from a deep hurt inflicted long ago. The perfect well for someone such as she to tap in order to wreak as much havoc as possible on as many beings as possible.

She nurtured him, and they almost became allies. She had had to be very careful in the beginning—restrain herself, for the first time ever, rather than take charge right away. His instincts were all right; she just had to… encourage them a little. Point him in the wrong direction.

The man helped, of course. As he said he would. Had he done otherwise, she would have ripped him apart faster than she had ever won her games before. It would have been a shame, too. The world needed more beings such as him.

If she possessed the moon, he suggested lightly in a way that would have made her fall in love if her heart—torn to shreds over a millennium of torture—could possibly love, she could cause it to plummet from the sky to the earth.

And she could do it slowly, she replied, with unmasked enthusiasm. So they would be afraid. And if they run, she'd find them. Like hide-and-seek. Another game to play, she thought, grinning viciously with bloody thoughts. She'd be the last one standing. 'It' forever. No one to tag her out.

So she took the moon for her own with the powers of her host, and within it, they created their ideal place. Calm. Flat. Peaceful. One single solitary tree, sunshine, clouds, blue skies, all the things she had dreamt about from her childhood, which—looking back on it—had not been so terrible after all. Not compared to present-day life.

How long had it been? she wondered, but no one could answer her.

Within the moon, she also created childish replicas of the man who had rescued her from her prison, who had offered her revenge, who had given her a perfect host. She was grateful for the first time in her memory. Grateful enough to give him eternal life through identical children.

But these children were as faceless as her host body, and she vowed to give them masks. She traveled lightly to each region of Termina, and found their resident guardian spirit, and sliced off their faces, and replaced them by stitching on a mask. They bled and cried out, but no goddesses or giants came to save them. She was the one in charge now.

And she took their ragged faces, shrank them to the appropriate size, and gave them to the faceless moon-children. As a gesture of generosity. Her host didn't remember a thing about it. She made sure she did it purely as herself. He would never have stood for such violence. Such blasphemy against the spirits. Even if it meant the happiness of their creations.

But then the boy came.

The boy from another world. The boy who appeared so much like her original jailer. The Hero. Her heartbeat, by now familiar, increased. With fear? With fury? With longing? She couldn't tell. Perhaps a mixture of all three.

She stole the ocarina, as instructed. She released the horse as well—something her host body insisted on. And then, her perception of reality shifted so that she could not tell what had and had not happened.

Time itself was shifting.

The moon fell, and did not fall, and fell, and did not fall, and fell, and did not fall, and fell, and did not fall, and eventually she wondered whether the man knew this would happen. Had he known of the boy? Whose side was he truly on? Did he really need her help to get back to wherever he came from? Why had he lured her out of hiding? Could he tell the future?

She should have just thrown herself back to the stars, to sleep forevermore.

Doubt. Another first.

She released her host, having lost trust in the man who had taken her out of the sky. If she had not attached herself in more ways than one to that host, she might have slain him without a second thought, but she settled for sucking the energy from his limbs. Ascending to the moon, she latched onto to one of her created children. This would end. Right now. And the Hero would die. Her Hero. The one who had damned her to this hellish, eternal, glorious existence.

The man had said she could become whatever she wanted once she swallowed her host's energy. No longer bound by her mask. She would be able to mutate, appear as a monster, fit to ravage the earth with war and pestilence.

But the Hero was not the boy she had known. No longer.

This Hero was a man. Strong. Painted face. Blank eyes. Double-bladed sword, twisted to a nasty point. Here to exact revenge for the loss of a world whence he obviously did not come.

And she was afraid. So very afraid. Scared for the mutilated _thing_ that was once some semblance of her life. Scared for the pain that would be hers to experience. _Scared._

But very, very angry. Something was impeding her progress.

First form, dead. No matter.

Second form, dead. He was strong.

Third form—

_Dying._

A high, unbroken, piercing shriek emanated from every part of her, and she voiced it, wailing her agony and terror and fury to the heavens, begging to die and to be spared with every fiber of her being.

Her consciousness dimmed, and with an awful burning sensation, her body shattered into dust, and her final thought before she disappeared under a wave of dreadful yet welcome darkness was:

_ Give me another chance!_


End file.
